


Always Late

by Esin_of_Sardis



Category: Stargate Universe
Genre: Bittersweet, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2018-01-05 05:12:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esin_of_Sardis/pseuds/Esin_of_Sardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rush is home late most nights. Gloria has come to expect it. She wishes that he would notice that she still lived there, but he’s to wrapped up in his work to care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always Late

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this after seeing s1e14 of SGU to help myself feel better. Thanks so much to RipperBlackstaff for help and encouragement. :)

The front door shut, followed by the tap of quick footsteps and the click of office door as it too closed. 7:14. He’d told me this morning his last class ended at five. I figured I had about twenty minutes before he realized that. Turning back to the window, I set the bow back on the string. The evening light poured through it onto my skin, warm and bright. It took a moment to recall my place in the music. One note came, followed by another, followed by another. Soon I was back in music, where no pain could touch me and there was no tension between Nicholas and I.

I never tried to claim my husband was an easy man to live with. Most days he was impossible. It was like he was never here. Even on the days we sat in the same room, I knew his mind was far away in places I could never hope to understand. So I didn’t complain, I kept it all to myself. Maybe he could read in my eyes how much it hurt that he was distant.

I missed a note as two hands encircled my waist. It seems twenty minutes had been pessimistic. Ignoring the delightful way his finger traced small circles on my stomach, I continued to play. Slow, trill, pause, and resolve, I heard my old violin teacher’s voice say in my head. The final note of the piece rang in the air even after I lifted the bow from the string.

Nick was annoyed that I was ignoring him. His hands refused to let go of me as I loosened the bow and moved to settled it in the green velvet of the case. The violin followed, making the slightest sound as my fingers brushed the strings. Once the last clasp was done up, I turned to face my husband.

“You’re late,” I whispered. I spent too much time trying to pretend that I didn’t glance at the clock every minute after five. That the only way to keep myself calm was to play. Even if he was late nearly every day, I still worried.

“I’m sorry.”

There was no excuse. He didn’t ask for forgiveness. He didn’t tell me why he was late. He was simply sorry he was. Hesitantly, I wrapped my arms around his neck and stepped closer so there was no longer space between us. He returned the embrace immediately as he had been waiting for it. His kissed my hair as he hadn’t in months, his unshaven face pulling strands loose of my braid.

“I waited to start dinner,” I said, pulling away and taking his hand. As always, it was warm and dried out from chalk dust. He let me lead him back through to the kitchen.

“What do you need done?”

It was lovely, working alongside him. I hadn’t planned anything extravagant, just soup and bread. I’d assumed I would eat it alone at the kitchen table between glances at the door to see if possibly Nick would join me. But he wouldn’t, so I’d finish and take a bowl to his office for him. He’d accept it with a distracted nod, never completely pulling himself out of his train of thought. But here he was, next to me, slicing the bread with a careful, even rhythm.

We made a strange sort of dance around each other as we worked. He’d step around me, his hands glancing over my back. I’d reach over his arm to fetch the plates. My footsteps would click in the tile in time with the thuds of the knife on the cutting board. Soft words punctuated the motions. He asked me to pass him the butter. I asked him to stir the soup for a minute. Every time he touched me, it sent a tingle through my body. Every time I glanced his way, I could barely believe he was actually here and not in his office.

I dished the soup into bowls, handing them to him to set on the table. It had grown dark as we worked; the kitchen lights seemed all the brighter now. The burner’s dial clicked as I turned it off and moved the pot to the middle of the stove, covering it so it would stay warm.

When I turned, Nick was right there. His lips met mine slowly, almost as if he was unsure if this was still alright. I returned the kiss, letting him back me up until I hit the counter. It was slow and sweet. We were both holding back, savoring the pure pleasure of each other after so long. He tasted like coffee—burnt and black. He must have had more just before coming home. I tried to get him to drink it less, but he never listened.

My arms came up around his neck so my fingers could curl in his soft hair. His hands moved up and down my back, pressing me against him. His lips never left mine, kissing me breathless over and over. It wasn’t hot and passionate like it sometimes was, but a breath of fresh air after years locked away inside. It was endless and warm and loving.

“Dinner’s going to get cold,” I said, my lips brushing against his with every syllable.

“Let it.” He sounded so annoyed that such a mundane thing as food could interrupt us that I couldn’t help but laugh. His lips covered mine again, effectively cutting off the sound. “I’m sorry,” he whispered against my mouth.

I only pulled his head closer and kissed him again. “I think I’m starting to forgive you.”


End file.
